


sun-eater, death-bringer

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dream Bubbles, Dubious Consent, Dubious Consentacles, Eldritch, Kinktober 2019, Magic, Other, Self-cest, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-11-27 01:36:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20940128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Doomed-Rose summons a Horrorterror.





	sun-eater, death-bringer

**Author's Note:**

> Like, two days late, yikes. For day 5 of Kinktober: mirror, and also day 6 of kinktober: domination. Because I have no time to actually write up anything bigger. UGH.
> 
> Some of the tags are more "just in case" than anything else.

At first, the dreambubbles are dark, and dreary, and rather terrifying in some ways. Yours is a mix of the Derse you once called home in your dreams, and the vague modern architecture reminiscent of your childhood home in New York. You were in the game for long enough; Derse was closer to home than your own house, and there was absolutely nothing good about that.

At least the bubbles are a bit kinder to you. You make yourself cranberry tea and sip at it, watching the black sky flicker with cracks of light. You write yourself entire novels, paragraphs of fiction spanning every piece of paper in your home - you detail your experiences in the game, your life before it, a childhood spent bored and set upon impulses. You knit scarves to give to the passing bubbles - when the snow comes, one dreary day-night, you bundle up in a scarf and beneath every blanket in your bubble.

It could be worse, but it is isolation, just like that you grew up with. You often expect to see your mother behind one of these doors, whether Derse or Earth, expect to see her holding a glass of wine aloft between her fingers, her scarf trailing behind. She taught you how to knit. You perfected upon her lessons, improved yourself.

Tarot cards, runes, pendulums - you collect little items during your time in the bubble by offering readings to passersby in exchange for something a little special. A necklace with a sideways 69, a pair of K-shaped anime shades, the top half of a broken sword, a pair of strange red earmuffs. You shove them into nooks and crannies, keep the ones you really like - they hold some sort of magick, you think, but you’re never quite sure.

Strangest of all, however, are what’s above you, past the black sky: swirling, eldritch beings. The horrorterrors. You see them, watching you. You can feel their eyes, hundreds of them, whenever you attempt to sleep. Whether you’ve been here a year or a million, they have been here longer, waiting, judging, listening. And it’s terrifying.

But you’re a girl of many tastes, now aren’t you?

You want more. You want freedom. You don’t want to wait for each and every bubble.

It’s a simple spell: you break the barrier between you, bring one of the horrorterrors into your bubble. It’s huge, writhing, tentacles breaking through your walls, crashing and glitching through everything. Then it sees you, beak and beady eyes settling upon you, one tentacle slithering closer and wrapping you up, drawing you closer. It’s huge, it barely fits in the bubble (it practically takes up the whole thing), but you have so many questions, and infinite time to learn.

“Hello,” you say, “I’m sure you know why I’ve brought -”

“_Y̸ǫu ̴stra̛nge͏, s̵tup͜id̸ ̧chi̧l͜d͢._” it says. You hear the words straight in your skull, not spoken - it brings you even closer, and you’re sure for a moment that this being is going to eat you, but you hold fast, square your shoulders. “_Do͘ y̸o̴u ha̷ve͢ ͏any̴ ͠i̸d̵ea͝ w̵h̷at̸ ͜you'͏v̡e ͏don̢e?̧_”

“Oh, I’m quite aware. I have many questions - I believe several of my alternate selves were in direct communication with you,” you say, letting out a breath. “I was hoping we could talk.”

“_Ta͡lk? Dơ yo̵u thi̢n͞k me͝ ̶a̵ fo̕ol?̨ Y͢o͝u a̵r͝e̢ a ͘c͡hi̴ld._”

“In human years, I’m eighteen, so I believe that is past qualifying as a child. Perhaps to you, as I’m well aware -” You can’t look into those eyes, not directly. This thing, this creature, it could destroy you, and yet it hasn’t. You can see your reflection in the inky black pool of it’s skin, see a million beaked mouths reaching out, eyes green and white turning towards you. Your reflection is distorted, your hair and skin whiter than usual in the way it turns on you. “I’m well aware you are far older than I am. I simply have a few questions, then I’ll leave you to it.”

“_Le͟ave ͠u͟s to i̷t̨? And̨ le̸t҉ ҉u͘s a͝bando͞n͡ ͏a̴ pe͡r̸f̨ęc̢tly̧ goo̵d͘ ͟ḩost?̷_”

“I figured you’d want as much.” The thing is, you’re a godtiered player, even if a deceased one. You know enough magick to shield yourself before conversing with eldritch gods - does this one think you’re dumb? It’d take quite a lot of dark magicks to get through your shields… you are a Dersite, through and through. “_However_, I very much like my body and my mind, and I’ll be keeping it for myself, thank you very much.”

It lets out a hiss and drops you. The noise reverberates through your skull, and you almost have to cover your ears because it feels like it’s going to rip through your brain, through your bones. You didn’t die a Heroic death for this. Not in the slightest.

“_You id̴i҉otic h̵u̶ma͡n̕._”

You’re pretty sure that you’re hearing every language in the universe, all at once, beamed directly into your brain, and it could well drive you mad, but you do have some questions. “Now now, don’t call me an idiot simply for outsmarting a god.”

“_I͞ ͝a̸m At̶rindȩh, ̨the A͟p͢ho͠t̕ic,̨ t͏h͡e̵ ̸Slay͡er͟ of W͘or͢lds,͞ ̡Su̴n̕-E͢a̷te̴r,͘ ̢D͢e͡a̷t͞h̛-̢Bringe̸r͟. ̷Yo̢u̧ DA̕R̵E ̨to ch͏a̕llenge͢ a̸ god̶ o͏f th͘e ̴S͝av̴an͢t ͜Ci͘rcles, ͘Te͏r͟ro̴r̴ ͘of͜ Dr͝e͠am̨s ҉a͡nd Eate̸r͠ ͞o͡f̧ ͢S͢ta͟r̶s?̧_”

“How edgy of you.”

It hisses again, harsh and ringing, lunging towards you - you throw up your hand, a burst of light spilling forth. It moves backwards, rippling, and you can see the tentacles surrounding your entire bubble. You find it pleases you, to see this terrifying creature shiver and shake and hiss. This is one of the lowest circles, below even the Smaller Gods - it’s smaller than some you’ve seen before.

“Now, will you answer my questions? I only have a few. Firstly -”

Just before you can speak, the horrorterror laughs, shrinking in on itself, doubling smaller and smaller and smaller, until before you stands… a perfect copy of yourself, down to the scarf. It steps towards you, your strange eldritch double, grinning to show teeth like a pirahana’s mouth - sharp and deadly, and laughing. The voice remains the same when it speaks, but there’s an edge to it, something not quite unlike your mother’s voice when she used to get angry at you. 

“_Questi̶o͟n̷s, qu͟esti͏o͟ns̢.̶ ̷Silļy͞ gi̢rl̷.͏_”

“What have you done?” you hiss.

“_Y̧ou̴ w̧i̢sh̸ t͠o͢ k̷now o͟f Ȩl̢dri̸tch ̶ma͞g͟icks͢?̧ ͢Yo͏u wish̛ yours̢el̢f̢ ͡ţo ͡l̷e̵a̛v͢e͝ t͟h͜is b͞ubbl̕e,̢ per͞haps̴ t̡o ̕be͜co̶me̕ one ̵o̡f us҉,̢ so̸ t͜h̶at y̶o͢u'r͝e frȩe t̷o ͟g̡o ͝w̵here ͝y̶o҉u ̵pl̨e̵a͏s̕e?_”

You… “Yes,” you say, even though that’s not quite your question - but close enough. In fact, that’s far more than what you expected. “I wish undeath upon myself. I wish to be free.”

“_Fo̶o̕l̵i̕s̷h̵ ̕ch͟i̢l҉d._”

Your eldritch double steps towards you, and it’s shadow isn’t human at all. It smirks at you, closed mouth, and reaches forward, grabbing your hair, pulling you towards it. You yelp, struggling, but your double leans down, pushing you to your knees.

“_You ha̸v̨e͝ ͞no̡ i͟dea̵ wh͏at i̡t en͡t͡ailş. I̴ wa̸s o͜nc̨e ͏j̴u҉s̢t͟ ̸like҉ ̷you, ̛you kno͞w.͜_”

It’s eyes are green and purple, and you can see your own reflected back when this _thing _leans down and licks a wet stripe across your cheek. You pull a face, gagging when you realize that, aside from the scarf, it’s not wearing anything. In fact, there’s a tentacle-like _something _coming right out of where you know your clit is, rubbing against the side of your face, suctioning to your lips before pushing inside.

It’s no surprise that you’re into it, not when you’ve always had a bit of a flair for the dramatic - you’ve read enough tentacle smut fics in your time, written enough yourself. It’s stranger actually experiencing it, feeling it slide down your mouth, feeling dominated… you’d always assumed you’d be the one dominating.

It tastes like black cherries, and you grin through it.

“_T̷his i͢s ̡wh͝at ͏you w̛an̡t͏e̴d̛, isn't i̸t͟?_”

_Oh, it certainly is._


End file.
